She shuffles the note aside to reveal a clear sleeve underneath—protection for a brittle piece of parchment dated 1807. The handwriting matches Ezra’s.
“Maggie,” I exclaim. “Why isn’t this on display?”
“I wouldn’t dare expose it to light, and we can’t definitively say Ezra wrote it. If I put it behind glass, people will call it gospel.”
I pick up the sleeve.
“The dates coincide, you see.” Maggie taps the time stamp written on top of the parchment. “By all historical accounts, Ezra Vandenberg finished the portrait in question on this very day.”
I read the short, cryptic entry while Jude looks over my shoulder.
Finally, I have captured her, and yet I know not who she is.
Balm or blight.
Beacon or burden.
A blessing sent to end my suffering, or a promise that it shall endure.
I recall the mysterious revelation written by my own hand in the year of my son’s birth, and I wonder if she is the one to whom it refers.
The back of my neck tingles.
I know not who she is …
I turn the sleeve over, like there might be more on the back. But there isn’t, and my thoughts have spun into a whirling dervish.
“A blessing sent to end my suffering,” Jude reads. “Did Ezra suffer?”
“Only as much as any tortured artist with wealth, status, and no known ailments. There was a rift in the family, which I’m sure didn’t help his sense of suffering.”
“Between him and his brother?” I say.
“Raphael,” Maggie replies with a nod. “According to all accounts, the two were estranged.”
Hatred all the way down.
“There were rumors of madness, too,” Maggie continues. “But those centered around the portrait. Hence, the title. Ezra’sObsession.” She emphasizes the second word. “Most limners didn’t go around painting figments of their imagination.”
“Is that what she was?” I ask.
“If I had to guess, I’d say she was a lover.”
Maggie’s conclusion irks me.
So does the smug look on Jude’s face when she says it.
“Then his own words don’t make any sense,” I say. “If the subject ofEzra’s Obsessionwas a lover, why would he writeI know not who she is?”
“Like I said, he was a bit touched in the head. And, if he was having an affair, he wouldn’t very well record a confession, would he?”
“It was his private journal.”
“Hissupposedprivate journal.” Maggie’s attention slides to the charcoal sketch, her eyes brightening. “Is this what you’re after? You believe this woman was the subject?”
No, actually.
She’s not the subject.
